Page 25 of Company of Thieves
“No, but I’m a fast learner,” I said, then added softly, so that only he could hear, “Please, Alan. This is important to me. I can help, I swear I can.”
He snarled something and grabbed my wrist, hauling me down the gangway until he stopped at the last gun, shoving me at the man who paused in the middle of turning a handle at an open panel on the side of the cannon. “Show her how to prime the gun, Az.”
The man straightened up. He must have been over seven feet tall, as big as a brick building, and probably half as yielding.
The man pursed his lips for a moment, then shrugged, and handed me a Z-shaped piece of metal. “The priming mechanism is there,” he said in a thick accent. “You must inject air into the aether in order for it to be ready to ignite, following which you set the flow through the tube. These guns take a thirty-three-milliliter burst, so you have to set both the air and the flow to that level. Then the priming pins must be set. There are four of them along the length of the gun.”
“Air, flow, thirty-three, priming pins,” I repeated, praying I’d remember it. In the distance, the sound of an airship’s guns firing could be heard, but I couldn’t tell if they were from Etienne’s ships or theEnterprise.
Az moved a few feet down the cannon, flipping open another panel, showing me a flat metal piece into which several adjusting pins had been set. “Don’t touch anything but the priming pins, else you’ll blow us to kingdom come.”
He showed me how each of the four sets of pins needed to be set (all different, of course, because anything else would be too easy), and after making me repeat it twice, told me to go ahead and set it. He hovered over my shoulder when I reached for the air-injection knob, but just as my fingers were tightening around it, we must have come into range, because the airship gave a little lurch when three of the six cannons on that side started firing.
Aether cannon fire had a peculiar property to it. There was an initial rushing noise, which I realized was the gun sucking in air that mixed with the aether, then a moment of silence, followed by an odd roaring noise as the resulting plasma tore through the air. Jack had told me that he thought the aether affected air on a molecular level, changing the makeup of the atoms as it ripped through them. Whatever the heated aether did on a molecular level, the results were deadly and horrible.
Alan strode up and down the gangway while the cannons were fired, tossing out orders, and pitching in to help more times than not. The cannons, like the gunpowder version of the normal world, grew hot with use, and periodically had to have the barrels cleaned. In the case of theNightwing’s guns, they needed to have a big stick with a white bit of cloth on the end rammed down the barrel after it was fired a half-dozen times. Az attended to that on our gun, reminding me of a man holding a giant Q-tip. Two younger men, probably in their late teens, assisted him, in both rolling the gun back when it needed to be cleaned and setting the directional gauges on the cannon. I didn’t have time to ask them their names, and wasn’t sure they spoke English even if I had been able to.
If I’d thought training with Alan earlier was exhausting, it was nothing to being trapped in the gun bay, the sound of twelve guns firing, the heat from the aether as it spat out into the night; the nerve-racking task of making sure I primed the gun properly had sweat rolling under my armor, but there wasn’t time to do more than wipe my sweaty face on the bit of lay that dangled down between my damp shoulder blades, and then the gun was rolled back, ready to be primed again.
The fight seemed to go on forever, but I learned later it took only about half an hour before Etienne decided that his ship wasn’t going to be able to take out Alan and theNightwing, especially with theEnterprisehanging above us.
“Why aren’t Jack and Octavia shooting?” I paused at one point, when Alan ran to a speaking tube that led up two decks to where the pilot waited next to the autonavigator to issue maneuvers. “They’ve fought the Black Hand before. They should be firing with us.”
“Theirs is a cargo ship,” he answered after giving orders into the bell-like receiver that clung to the wall. “Their guns are defensive only. TheNightwingwas built to attack.”
Fear pinched me. “Are they in danger hanging overhead like that?” I asked.
“Not unless they get in range of Etienne’s guns. I have no intention of attacking them, and their position is such that Etienne can’t harm them.” Alan gave me an odd look. “Hallie, there’s—”
A blast beneath us caused the ship to wobble. Alan swore and ran to the porthole.
I wiped my face on my sleeve, relieved Jack and Octavia were safe. I would have followed Alan to see what exploded beneath us, but just then Az called curtly for me.
When the battle was over, and the guns fell silent, I tottered backward until I hit a wall, sliding down it to plop into a puddle of exhausted Hallie. I sat there trying to catch my breath, watching as Alan, who had stripped off not only his armor but also his tunic, moved amongst the men and cannons, checking on both. His chest was shiny with sweat, one side smeared with the red residue that aether left in the cannon after firing.
Dear goddess, he was a gorgeous man. His hair, standing in clumps after he’d evidently ripped off the turban, was blue-black in the gaslights that ran along the ceiling. His arms had delicious muscles that indicated a man who lived a physical life, without going into the—to me—less savory area of bodybuilder. My wild heart rate started to slow as I let myself watch the play of muscles in his back when he bent and helped one of the younger men up, one arm around him until Zand hurried over to lend his aid.
And then there was Alan’s chest, with the black curls now damp and subdued, the soft ripple of muscles disappearing into the waistband of his leggings.
Why shouldn’t I take the opportunity to satisfy my cravings with him? He’d agreed to teach me how to fight—my mind skittered over the way I’d yelled to Jack in order to give Alan the impression I’d received permission to do so—so it wasn’t like I was giving in to my lust without regard to my plan.
After all, what was wrong with a little honest lust? Alan was clearly not averse to it, judging by comments he’d made earlier in the day. But that brought a question of its own—was I prepared to be the sort of woman who climbed into bed with a man she just met?
He bent to pick up his turban and armor, dumped into a corner, the material of his leggings pulling tight across his divine ass.
“Oh, you bet I am,” I said, trying unsuccessfully to get to my feet.
Alan turned at my words, smiling when I waved my hand toward him. “Problems, dove?”
“Just help me up, you big oaf,” I said, telling my legs they had to work just a little longer before I let them collapse onto a bed.
Preferably Alan’s.
He pulled me up, catching me when I teetered forward, almost falling on my face. “Sorry. Legs are a bit wobbly.”
“That was a bit more work than you thought, eh?” he asked, then drew me to his side and walked me over to the staircase.
“Yes. But at least I helped, and I didn’t blow us up, and Az said that although I was the slowest person he ever had under him, that if I got more experience, I could be a creditable gunner.” I felt no little amount of pride at the (faint, to be true) words of praise from Az and, with a groan, hauled myself up two flights of spiral stairs until we reached the crew deck.
